


dear Emilia

by opheliasnettles



Category: Othello - Shakespeare
Genre: F/F, Unrequited Love, gratuitous descriptions of hair, misuse of thee/thou (I tried)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23577949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opheliasnettles/pseuds/opheliasnettles
Summary: Emilia speaks the things she should not say.
Relationships: Desdemona/Emilia
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	dear Emilia

**Author's Note:**

> I hope my English teacher is proud of me.

Emilia knits, the yarn looping and catching and weaving to one interlocked row beneath her fingers, and as she knits she wonders if the yarn must be her guts, for within her stomach crawls a sickening, squirming beast. 

-

Desdemona sits patiently as Emilia runs the brush through her chestnut hair, a soft brown, lighter than the gleaming rounds of her iris. Her hair is coiled by nature, smooth by nature, and under Emilia’s hands it flows like a stream, fattened with rainwater in spring. Oh, how Emilia dreams of running her hands through that river in the fashion of Othello.

She dreams sometimes she is Othello, she the object of Desdemona’s affections. She dreams of her mistress, soft, fair, nestled into Emilia’s arms like a field mouse sleeping in a wildflower. The dreams are infrequent, but nightly she prays that she may grasp at Desdemona’s hair like Othello, that she may kiss the soft collar and smooth cheeks of her mistress. 

Emilia has redirected the last ringlet of hair precisely where Desdemona appreciates its presence, thus she bites her tongue and hopes for strength. 

“My lady, I must confess,” Emilia says, her stomach twisting and pulling. 

“Why, by all means, do confess, dear Emilia,” Desdemona responds, her eyes now twinkling in the dawn light, widened and pulled in by Emilia’s words. 

“I must confess - I have found myself with love for thee,” Emilia attempts, yet her words are heavy like river stones. 

“Why, I have love for thee. Thy heart is full, Emilia, I have observed it myself.” Desdemona smiles, subtle and personal, so warm it fills Emilia with its heat. 

“No, no, my lady, you misunderstand. I have too much of my love for Desdemona - it fills my heart to the cracking-point. I am drunk on it, but it is a pointless, disastrous love. There is room for only so much of such a love in a person, and Othello has already filled thee with his love.” Emilia stiffens, yet the hot of tears still pricks at her eyes, near spill. 

“Ah,” Desdemona says, her eyebrows upturning slightly. “Thou art knowledgeable of the fact that I cannot share such affection, despite my love for thee, dear Emilia.”

“I do know. Thou lovest Othello, wholly and truly, and I should not wish to disturb such a whole, pure love, not when it brings the colour to my mistress’ cheeks and the joy to her eyes.” Emilia forces a smile to her face.

“And yet?”

Desdemona speaks with such care, such concern yet such love, that Emilia falls to her knees and takes Desdemona’s hands, her head hanging limp and loose from her neck. 

“And yet I hope that one day I will love Desdemona, and Desdemona will love quite as much. It will never come to pass, mistress, but my heart demands me to mull on such fragile, impossible hope,” Emilia cries, her cheeks scorching and wet with tears, her head buried in Desdemona’s skirts. 

“Oh, dear Emilia,” Desdemona whispers, kneeling in front of her, voluminous skirts tucked around her legs. She frees her hands from Emilia’s tight grip, places her warm, softened fingers on Emilia’s cheeks and guides her ear to the divot between her collarbones. “Hush, now. I have much love for thee - much love. If my dearest husband had never found me, I would have such love for thee, Emilia, the love thou givest to me. But I cannot love thee in such a fashion, I do not yet have room within my body for more richened love.”

Emilia continues to pour saltwater from her eyes, Desdemona’s palm holding her to her chest, her fingers weaving and tracing through Emilia’s hair. 

“I am sorry, mistress. I should not have spoke,” Emilia murmurs. 

“No, no, do not be sorry, Emilia. Such affectations should be spoken about, as to clarify what standing two dear friends are upon, and I do appreciate thine honestly,” Desdemona soothes, placing her lips upon Emilia’s forehead. 

Emilia squeezes her eyes shut so tight and hopes that she may live in Desdemona’s embrace forever. 


End file.
